Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

Scott started up the drive again, clicking the remote over his shoulder as he crunched across the gravel. The gates swung shut with a reassuring clang .

‘And there’s always my charity single idea! How does...’ He froze. There it was again. The scuffing noise. He inched his way around till he was facing the gates again, every single hair on his head standing to attention.

‘Scotty, you OK?’

‘Thought I heard something.’ He raised his voice at the growing shadows. ‘Hello?’ Trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’

Give Sylvia her due, she had his back, without so much as a pause: ‘Do you need me to call the cops?’

Silence.

Not even the fox.

Oh, what was he doing ?

A laugh bounced its way out of him. OK, it was a bit high and nervous sounding, but if you can’t laugh at yourself being an idiot, who could you laugh at?

He shook his head and hurried back to the house. Not running, but not dawdling either.

‘Honestly, I genuinely terrified myself then.’

Soon as he was inside, he locked the front door, double bolted it and put the chain on too. Gave himself a little shake. ‘Sorry, sorry. What were we talking about again?’

‘Brainstorming PR opportunities with my very favourite client.’ Bet she said the same thing to all her clients. But it was still nice to hear.

Scott pushed through into the atrium — which, let’s face it, sounded so much better than ‘hall’. There was a bottle of Courvoisier XO in the kitchen. Big glass of that would go down very nicely indeed. Well, he deserved it, didn’t he? After nearly scaring himself to death.

‘Right, yes: so my charity single idea. I was thinking we could—’

A dull thunk reverberated around the inside of his skull and the room rushed at him like the incoming tide. Ringing in his... Knees buckle, not straight... Floor rushing up to meet him.

Darkness.

Sylvia frowned at the phone, sitting in its cradle on the kitchen countertop — hands-free, so she could enjoy a nice large Pinot Grigio and a dish of Kalamata olives. ‘Scotty?’

A thunk from the phone’s speaker, then a groan.

She rolled her eyes and popped another olive.

Honestly, why did male clients have to be such a pain in the proverbial? I want more exposure! I want on BBC Breakfast ! I want on the One Show — though why anyone would want that was absolutely beyond her — Bake Off, Strictly, MasterChef, I’m a Celebrity, Saturday Kitchen , wah, wah, wah, why aren’t I more popular?

But when you’ve recently bought a two-bedroom flat in Kensington, you do what you have to in order to pay for it. Even if it meant polishing the egos of whiny wannabes like Scott Meyrick.

Sylvia took a sip of Pinot and frowned at the phone as scuffing and grunting came from the other end. He better not be having a phonewank at her...

‘Hello? Scotty?’

Some muffled rustling noises, then another groan.

Swear to God, if it wasn’t for her staggeringly huge mortgage she’d dump his whiny Z-list arse in a shot.

‘Very funny, Scotty. Now, can we get on with business?’

Then a woman’s voice, hard and Scottish: ‘Grab his legs.’

Sylvia sat up, put the wine glass down and turned the volume up. Pressed the ‘RECORD CALL’ button. ‘Scotty? Is everything OK?’

‘Right, you little bastard.’

A... what was that? It was too muffled to make out. She grabbed the phone, pressing it against her ear.

The next voice was a man’s, a thicker, coarser version of Scotty’s accent. ‘He’s coming round.’

There were people in her client’s house.

Oh — my — God...

And she was getting it all on tape.

‘SCOTTY!’

‘You hear that? It was a... There: in his shirt pocket?’ The man’s voice got louder. ‘Oh shite, he’s on the phone with someone!’

‘So what? Let them listen. All publicity’s good publicity, right?’

‘LEAVE MY CLIENT ALONE!’

Laughter.

Then moaning. A confused, ‘Wmnnnnghh... I...’ Scotty’s mumbling snapped straight to pure terror. ‘Who the—’ whatever he said next was muddy and indistinct, as if someone slapped their hand over his mouth.

The Woman: ‘So Scotland’s a “half-arsed nation of chippy wee wannabees”, is it?’

A metallic sound. Followed by muffled pleas.

The Man: ‘Spite’s a terrible thing, Scotty. Real terrible.’

The Woman: ‘Hold him still.’

A scream belted out of the speaker, high-pitched and terrified and wine-curdling. Sylvia wrenched the phone away from her ear, knocking over her glass. It shattered against the worktop, Pinot Grigio going everywhere as the screaming went on and on and on and on...

She dug her other iPhone from her handbag and dialled 999.

Come on, come on, come—

‘Emergency services, which service do you require?’

‘Police! Get the police out there now!’

Mhari pulls down her facemask and grins at him.

Haiden checks his own white oversuit — speckled with tiny red dots, but hers is caked, bright scarlet all the way from her gloves to her elbows. More on her chest.

His stomach does a wee spin to the left, then the right, but he swallows it down.

Jesus...

She snatches a fancy-looking bottle from the kitchen countertop, twists off the top with her bloody gloves, raises the brandy in salute. ‘Slàinte mhath!’ Then swigs straight from the bottle. Holds it out to him.

Yeah, maybe not.

‘He got any whisky?’

She jerks her head towards the open kitchen door, where the lower half of Scotty Meyrick is slowly inching past, legs barely moving as he tries to crawl away. Not getting very far. Leaving a thick smear of scarlet on the marble floor. ‘He’s a Unionist wanker, course he hasn’t.’

Mhari wiggles the bottle at Haiden and he shrugs, then takes it. Lowers his mask.

‘Slàinte mhòr.’ He takes a big scoof of brandy. Shudders as the sweet grapey liquid hits the back of his throat. Forces it down. ‘Gah...’

Mhari puts her bloodstained hand on his white-suited chest. ‘Oh, baby, we’re nearly done. We’re so close.’ Then she steps in close and kisses him, her breath like petrol from the brandy. ‘Soon we can do anything we like.’

Now that’s more like it. He smiles, slow and sexy. ‘Anything?’

She laughs, then grabs him and kisses him again — deeply this time, with lots and lots of tongue. Breaks for air and stares through the open door at Scotty Meyrick’s half-arsed escape crawl. ‘But first we have to take care of our new friend, before the cops get here.’

Two patrol cars sat on the wide gravel drive, blocking in a fancy BMW Roadster. The one nearest the massive, garish, house still had its blue-and-whites on, the flickering disco of misery reflecting back from the wall of glass that fronted the property.

The sign by the gates was a slab of granite with ‘CAIRNHARN COTTAGE’ on it, which was a bit of an understatement. Scotty Meyrick’s house was huge. One of those places that got featured in property supplements as ‘HOME OF THE WEEK!’ — had to be at least five bedrooms in there; landscaped gardens; the edge of a tennis court poking out behind one corner of the house.

Logan pulled his Audi into the only gap left and climbed out.

Not often you got to describe a night in Aberdeenshire as ‘sultry’, but this probably qualified. The air, thick and sticky. Smelling of dust and something... chemical. Like the warm verruca-plaster scent of chlorine. Which probably meant there was a pool as well.